


Unworthy

by plottingalong



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Wuthering Heights - Emily Brontë
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Style, Bars and Pubs, Beekeeping, Bronte - Freeform, Crossover, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Reichenbach Falls, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Wuthering Heights - Freeform, heathcliff - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:48:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25408684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plottingalong/pseuds/plottingalong
Summary: Heathcliff tries to prove his worth to Catherine and Sherlock Holmes offers him advice.
Relationships: Catherine/Heathcliff (Wuthering Heights), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 25





	Unworthy

“Unworthy.”  
The word was muttered over and over by a youth of fifteen or sixteen, huddled over the hearth, his long black hair dripping over the cobblestones. Around him was a bustling pub, full of travellers that had stopped to shelter themselves from the rain.  
“Unworthy!” the boy repeated, thrusting his hands over the flames.  
“I’ll show her- I’ll show her… unworthy, my eye! May she be blasted-”  
The youth did not continue his rant, for a gaunt stranger joined him beside the hearth, sopping wet as well, a hat clutched in his large, pale hands.   
“A pint?”  
The voice was meticulously groomed, of a gentleman of high society. The boy shrugged and accepted what the stranger handed him.   
“I myself do not drink, but the affairs of the eve are sure to bring anyone to inhibit their senses. I, however, have my violin. It will not bother you, will it?”  
The boy shook his head, but the moment the man pulled the violin from his case, he paused.  
“No. I shan’t here. I will have to resort to talking in order to while the night away. From the moor, are you?”  
The boy nodded in surprise.  
“Name’s Heathcliff.” he said shortly.   
“Been abandoned? By love, of all things.”  
The stranger squatted down next to Heathcliff, his piercing, grey eyes bored into Heathcliff’s black ones.  
“Sherlock Holmes.” he said quietly. “Don’t bandy that name around. It’s nice to say it one final time.”  
“My one love decided to marry someone else.” Heathcliff gave no indication that he had heard the name, or cared. “She thinks I’m a worthless beggar.”  
Sherlock Holmes nodded gravely.  
“I could offer you a job, if you were a beggar. But you’re not really a beggar, are you?”  
Heathcliff grunted and stirred the logs with a poker.  
“How would you know that? I may as well be.”  
“Well,” Sherlock Holmes nodded, “your besotten appearance certainly points to it. However, the cloth of your trousers is of good quality, and your speech, although rough, is of high class. No, I believe you underestimate your worth, and in fact lower it by running away.”  
Here, Sherlock Holmes sank into silence. Heathcliff did not challenge him. He continued to lean with his head between his hands. The fire popped for a while more before Holmes spoke again.   
“You say your love has married another.”  
Heathcliff nodded.  
“My only true friend walking on this earth wed. I was left alone. Now, they must take me for dead. Tonight, I begin my venture into the spider’s web. I may not walk out alive.”  
Knowing he should offer some sort of condolence, Heathcliff patted him halfheartedly on the shoulder.   
“I loved her like a sister. She was my moon and stars.” he finally said. “Now, I shall have to win my fortune, and so win her.”  
“There is no winning in a game like that.” Sherlock Holmes placed a long pipe in his mouth. “There is only losing. I am hiding to save John Watson. You are hiding to save yourself.”  
“If John Watson is as important to you as you say, those are the same thing.” Heathcliff retorted savagely. “We are all selfish in front of this hearth. But by god, I shall become selfishly rich and Cathy will regret marrying that Linton swine.”  
Sherlock Holmes did not reply. The two of them sank into silence.  
“Being selfish was not my intent.” He said slowly.  
“T’was mine.” Heathcliff said gruffly. “Just as Cathy was selfish, I will be. How will I become rich?”  
“By beekeeping, of course. A more noble art or fearsome task is yet to be invented.” Heathcliff laughed.   
“Beekeeping? Do you want me to be made a fool of? I shall be a soldier or a sailor, not a beekeeper.”  
“A beekeeper is as brave as any soldier or sailor. The money, my friend, is unquestionably surer. Here.”  
With a quick movement, he conjured ink and quill from somewhere in his coat. He scribbled down something on a soggy piece of paper before handing it to Heathcliff.  
“Sorry about the water. I jumped to my death today. This is a contact of mine. Say my name and he will equip you with the necessities. Within three years, you shall have amassed a sizable amount of money if you sell at the right places.”  
Sherlock Holmes smiled.   
“I shall be made a fool of.” Heathcliff said stubbornly.   
“You need never tell. Mystery, I find, is far better. How did I survive my death? No one will ever know. Go on then, young Heathcliff. Capture this love of yours. I believe she is waiting for you, just as mine- though I cannot hope so- is for me.”  
Without another word, Sherlock Holmes disappeared into the shadows. Heathcliff lay his head down on the cobblestones and fell asleep. When he awoke, he went in search of beehives.


End file.
